Juggalo Law

Posts by Juggalo Law

Send your stories to [email protected]!

PETERMAN: Kramer, my friend, that is one ripping good yarn…
KRAMER: You know, if you like that one, I got more… what are you looking for? Romance? Comedy? Adventure?… Erotica?

I would like to hear your stories. Not long ago, Joe reminded those of you who currently attend law school that you are invaluable to this site’s ability to report all of the important goings-on at our nation’s elite bastions of legal learning. Without you, we would never get to regurgitate the overwrought exclamations law school dorks spew on their school listservs. Tipsters, like torts, strive to make us whole.

But what if I told you that I don’t care about your newsworthy tips? What if I told you that I want nothing more than to bathe in your tedious day-to-day life, your minor humiliations and your microscopic triumphs? I want to hear the stories you will tell each other this weekend over beers at your favorite dive bar. The stories you have problems getting out because you laugh so hard at times that the whole table shakes and your eyes water. You probably think this stuff is too dumb and petty to entertain. But you’d be wrong. I love people’s stories like Lat loves peep toes. And I want you to send me those tales.

To grease the skids for this venture, I thought I’d share with you the story that highlighted a recent weekend repast. It’s a tale of Biglaw, sex toys, and online surveillance. I call this story “Elite Law Firm Dildo Cookies”…

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Sean Taylor was murdered on November 27, 2007. To give you some perspective on that date, just consider the following. In 2007, Above the Law was a free insert that ran in every other issue of Soldier of Fortune magazine. There, amongst the gun reviews and true tales of heroism, was David Lat’s humble legal gossip circular. In 2007, I was finishing my first semester of my second year of law school. I was taking Complex Lit or Fed Jur or Antitrust. Gearing up for all the abstract federal antitrust work I currently handle at Garbage Jobs ‘R Us, I guess? In 2007, an ounce of gold was worth two-and-a-half cents and two-and-a-half cents down could get you a house. With a pool. Or a pond. Pond would be good for you.

In 2007, Barack Obama was a Senator and David Souter was a judge. In 2007, I pissed in my bed two nights in a row. The first time was jarring, but ultimately surmountable. The second time was much more frightening as I discovered that a bed only comes with two sides that can be reasonably slept on. In 2007, the number one song was Rihanna’s “Umbrella.” It would not be until 2008 that I truly listened to this song. In 2008, my friends really hated me.

In 2007, the Indianapolis Colts beat the Chicago Bears in the Super Bowl. I was at a house party where I attacked the keg viciously and without mercy upon my arrival. Shortly after Devin Hester ran the opening kickoff back for a touchdown, I threw up in my friend’s toilet and passed out in someone’s bed. I awoke after halftime to discover that everyone hated me. This would turn out to be good training for 2008.

In 2007, Sean Taylor was murdered. This week, the trial date for his alleged murderers was set for this October.

Let’s talk sports…

double red triangle arrows Continue reading “The Wheels Of Justice Turn Slowly For Sean Taylor”

* A Texas court overturned Tom DeLay’s conviction on money laundering charges. DeLay immediately thanked Jesus, who played an instrumental role in the three judge panel’s deliberations. [New York Times]

* Eric Holder has eliminated mandatory minimum sentences for those low-level nonviolent drug offenders whose cases are currently pending. In related news, here is a cow riding a razor scooter. [Washington Post]

* This says J.P. Morgan actually did just fine in their settlement with the Securities and Exchange Commission. I get the hugest boner from underdog stories like this one. [WSJ Law Blog]

* A woman has sued Getty Images after her photo was used in an HIV advertisement. She’s apparently holding out for the herp campaign. [New York Post]

* More from Clarence Thomas in Portland: “Why was a black kid in Georgia reading Ayn Rand?” I don’t know. Because he was dumb? [ABC News]

Putin, totally not gay. Like, the opposite of gay, with his cute little hat and stuff.

It was at some point during the Pleistocene Era that man first learned how to play grab ass. In the locker rooms of that day, on the golf course, pretty much anywhere you found two cavedudes hanging out, they were grabbing at each other all fun-like. Fast forwarding just a couple decades, the ancient Greeks formalized this game as wrestling and built up around the new sport a festival that would celebrate dudes just hanging out, being dudes. Greeks from all over got together and got naked and just grabbed and pulled at each other, sweat glistening off their meaty torsos. The competition itself was secondary to the camaraderie, which was mostly made up of the aforementioned tugging and pulling and rasslin’, naked bodies gyrating in tune to nature’s dictates about motion and the human form. Also at this time, someone (probably Aristotle or Plato) came up with the idea of amateurism to describe what was happening at the Games. This idea, of course, has evolved over the years into what now comprises college sports in this country along with countless amateur-themed websites that require 5 dollars for monthly subscriptions. Same kind of deal at work in both. [Ed. note: Juggalo Law is not a trained historian and, in fact, boasts loudly and often that he got into law school solely on "huge balls and forged transcripts." We're not even sure he's literate.]

Next February, the Olympics will be held in a country that would rather not hear about gay stuff, be it from prehistory, antiquity, or now. Russia, a nation in desperate thrall to the diminutive former hubcap thief Vladimir Putin, has outlawed pro-gay “propaganda.” And so now the world’s eyes turn to Russia to see what will happen when a virulently bigoted law bumps up against the notorious gay curling mafia.

Let’s talk biathletes.

Let’s talk sports…

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Perhaps you remember them differently than I do. I remember a herd (and I don’t think it’s ungenerous to describe them thusly) parked at a table in our library. Bad skin, weight issues, nearsightedness — three-dimensional representations of a Far Side cartoon, hunched over the table in deep meditation. Wisecracks that weren’t wise at all bubbled up from the corners of the action. These were the jesters of this unfortunate royal court. And then suddenly! Action! One of the herd leaned over and subtly, but deftly, turned a stack of playing cards ever-so-slightly to the right. MAGIC!!!!!!???

Magic: The Gathering appeared at my high school seemingly out of nowhere. It appeared, to these eyes, to coalesce the scattered nerdery into a tight circle of “fun.” Lunches were now solemn affairs, after school was now not just a wasteland of sports and athletic enterprise. Time was filled with a card game that combined all the sexiness of Dungeons and Dragons with all of the mental dexterity of Go Fish. Pre-internet, you have to understand, this must have seemed like a godsend to those whose dance cards never involved dances.

And so it is that Magic: The Gathering reappeared on my radar this weekend as the New York Times ran a piece about its continuing popularity and recent beneficence. Specifically, the dorkiest game of all time is doing its part to make law school more affordable for the few, the proud, the Poindexters…

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I met Robert F. Kennedy Jr. once. In college, a group I padded my résumé with hosted Mr. Kennedy for a speech. I remember him being a bit of a frosty prick, but he didn’t seem uniquely so. As aloof as a successful person who was born into “American royalty” might be expected to be. His vocation was saving the world via environmental activism and his voice was reedy and fragile, seemingly one solid throat-clearing away from productive use. There was a dinner held for him. It was lame and sad. A wan salad and food-service chicken breast, covered in food-service tomato sauce. During his speech, Kennedy upbraided a young idealist for his recycling, which wouldn’t accomplish much in Kennedy’s mind. Corporations wouldn’t be moved by this crunchy college kid’s quixotic trash-collection fetish.

I remember all these details from a thoroughly unremarkable speech and event and yet today I feel like my memory is somehow porous and unreliable. Because in all those bits of detail, I don’t have any memory of a straight-up horndog, macking on the finest ladies the University of Kansas had to offer. Must have been a “victory” day for RFK 2 (explanation to come).

Yesterday, the New York Post published a few scant details from a “sex diary” Kennedy allegedly kept in 2001 — a tale of sexual conquest and Catholic guilt. According to the Post, this environmental lawyer and Kennedy bro unfortunately chose to memorialize his own insane solipsism.

There are those who look at famous lawyers who leave a trail of incriminating evidence and ask why? I dream of sex diaries that dare to be read and ask, why not?…

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Click the picture for the full story on Deadspin

From: [email protected]
Date: Thu, Sep 5, 2013 at 08:25 PM
Subject: I don’t see the sports law thing…
To: “AbovetheLaw Tips”

…coming tonight. On top of the first game of the season, this is a dead *$#*ing week for sports law stuff. More concussion news? Who gives a ****? I don’t. I wrote everything I’m gonna write about that crap last week. I realize you may not view my cri de coeur re: Abraham Lincoln stone genitals as the end-all-be-all on the concussion crisis, but I don’t curr. Concussion crisis? I swear I just used that formulation because it’s alliterative. Concussion crisis crab cake concubine. Christ, I’m sorry. You know I go long with these emails….

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Bet you can still get through that thing to someone’s brain.

Jefferson, are you injured or are you hurt?–James Caan, The Program

Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.–Joseph Heller

A few years ago, ESPN’s Monday Night Countdown used to do this bit where their assorted chuckleheads would sit around reviewing the biggest hits the NFL’s weekend action had to offer. At the soaring crescendo of each smash, one of the giggling ninnies would shout “You got JACKED UP!!!” And everyone would dissolve into further paroxysms of laughter.

I’m not going to tell you that I knew what was being displayed on the TV was morally reprehensible back then. Quite frankly, I’ve never been on the vanguard of moral consciousness. I was recently shocked to find out that beating your pets is not only frowned upon, but deeply taboo in almost every social circle. This late life come-to-Jesus moment does nothing for Rascal, who’s still smarting over my intemperate outbursts.

The point, if there is one, is that the arc of the moral universe seems to be about as long as my patience with animals. Everyone I know is getting gay married these days, weed is damn near legal, and slobberknocking hits are now, if not wholly condemned, quietly enjoyed in the privacy of one’s home (like samizdat or BBW porn). Strange days, indeed.

Yesterday, the NFL settled a major lawsuit filed against it by former players who claimed the league had failed to protect its players in the face of mounting evidence that concussions were making them permanently stupid or crippled or sad or worse.

Let’s talk which side got JACKED UP.

Let’s talk sports…

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A brief tangent. I was shocked and appalled to find out that I wasn’t asked my thoughts about being no-offered by your summer firm. As, perhaps, the only ATL writer who found himself in such a situation, I thought my insights would be particularly valuable. Instead of cobbling together that fake-as-hell gchat (“I think that is a fine point, sir. As I cogitate on this question, allow me to interject a brief few words in support of the fair maiden whose plight we now consider.”), they could have asked me: straight up, what did you do when Baker & McKenzie no-offered you?

Excellent question, Lat. I let a single teardrop roll down my cheek like I was Denzel in Glory. Then I picked myself up, slapped my dog in the face and did, like, 16,000 biceps curls. I determined that I wasn’t going to let some dumb dumb law firm dictate my life’s trajectory. I was going to be a huge success, someday reaching upwards of two dozen people as a writer for the Internet’s preeminent website for law firm bonuses and women’s shoes. I was also not going to let Baker’s decision get in the way of my life’s dream to one day work at a terrible office filled with half-wit lunatics who either don’t know I’m a lawyer or don’t care. To quote Matthew Wilder, I decided that no law firm gonna break-a my stride, nobody’s gonna slow me down. Oh no. I’ve got to keep on moving!

I also considered taking a huge dump outside Baker’s offices.

Let’s talk sports…

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You go to war with the army you have, not the army you might want or wish to have at a later time.–Donald Rumsfeld

That line, besides being a viciously subtle slap at this great nation’s servicemen and women, also contains a great amount of wisdom. Rummy’s lines had a way of doing that (known knowns, unknown unknown, gnome noams, etc.). For instance, today the sports world stands on the precipice of two wars. And as we survey the looming battlefields, sabres drawn, guns loaded, war analogies wild and unkempt, we face the very real prospect of going to war not with the army we want, but the army we have. Namely, Alex Rodriguez and Johnny Manziel.

But go to battle we must. Our nation’s sports, all teetering precariously on a foundation of absolute hypocrisy, threaten to come crashing down. We are aghast at the mere presence of performance enhancing drugs. At least, that’s what some dude at GNC told me. And while we believe in the free market reflexively, we do not believe a 20-year-old should share in the fruits of his labors. These are the motivating paradoxes of our current sports age and they are threatening to unravel right before our eyes. Isn’t this exciting!? It’s like when the Berlin Wall came down and the kid in your class brought the little pebble and he said “Look, this was the Berlin Wall.” And you squinted and shivered at the mere sight of such an important artifact but, seriously? You wanted to beat that kid in the face and take his history rock.

Let’s talk something other than that jerk kid and his cool commie gravel…

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